She felt his erection against her hip, the heat of his body swaying with hers, and let her fingers caress his chest where her hand lay over his heart.
“We can’t leave yet. I have to stay at least another hour or so.”
She was aware of him watching the room as they danced, she could feel it in the tension in his body, in the way his head moved against hers.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” he warned her. “Dunmore’s wife seemed damned sincere about the fact that there were no surprise guests.”
“And I told you, there are always surprise guests. Someone can’t make it, they give their invitation to a friend. Someone crashes, slips in, and drinks the free alcohol and eats the snacks from the buffet while pretending to be part of the crowd. It’s normal.”
But it didn’t feel normal. Kell could feel the fine hairs at his nape lifting in response to the closely developed instincts that had saved his ass until now. If Charlie Benson had managed to slip in, who else had?
His gaze roved over the dance floor as he maneuvered Emily until he could see into the ballroom once again. Benson was standing at the double French doors watching with a hint of longing. He lifted his champagne glass to Kell with an air of resignation then turned to the blonde standing several feet away from him.
Ian and Kira were standing just outside the patio doors, watching as he and Emily moved along the dance area. In Kira’s gaze he saw something harder, something more calculating, than he believed she wanted him to see. There was more to her, he could sense it.
“I love dancing with you, but until your mind is actually on the fact that you’re dancing with me, I’d prefer to find someplace to sit down for a few moments.”
He drew back and stared into her soft blue eyes. God, he wished they were anywhere but here. Anywhere but under the eyes of so many strangers and in possible danger. Someplace where he could hold her, touch her, still the unrest he could see moving through her expression.
She had questions and she wouldn’t wait much longer to ask them. He’d prefer to wait a hell of a lot longer before he had to answer them.
He escorted her to the buffet bar. There, they filled two delicate china plates, accepted a glass of wine each, and returned to the patio and the small wrought-iron tables and chairs that surrounded the dance area.
He wasn’t hungry. And he didn’t need the wine. What he needed was an explanation for the vague sense of warning that kept prodding him.
His gaze swept over the area again, coming back time and again to Emily, as guests stopped to speak, laugh, and draw her into the gossip that seemed to be the spice of political life. There were enough people surrounding her now that he didn’t have to worry about an assassin’s bullet.
As his gaze moved back to the couples dancing on the patio, he froze.
He hadn’t seen them in fifteen years, but he would recognize them anywhere. They were older, aged, their faces lined with grief and weariness, their eyes filled with sadness as they watched him.
Son of a bitch. He didn’t need this. Not here. Not now.
“Emily.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand to her as she stared back at him in surprise. The guests surrounding her parted immediately as she straightened from her chair and came to him.
No questions asked. She moved to him.
“We need to leave now,” he said softly. “Right now.”
She nodded swiftly, lifted her purse from the table and turned back to him.
But it was too late. Dammit, it was too damned late.
“Kell.” Aaron Beaulaine stopped in front of him, his weathered expression filled with determination and hope as he straightened his stooped shoulders and his arm curved around his petite wife, Patricia.
“Excuse me, sir,” he answered coolly. “We were just leaving.”
“Kell. It’s been fifteen years,” Patricia Beaulaine whispered softly. “Can’t we have fifteen minutes?”
He could feel Emily’s confused gaze as she stared at him and the older couple.
“I’m sorry,” he answered again. “But we need to be going.”
He tugged at Emily’s hand and she tugged back. Stilling, he clenched his jaw and whipped his gaze to her, feeling the anger beginning to rise inside him now.
“Hello.” She extended her hand to Aaron. “I’m Emily Stanton.”
“Richard Stanton’s little girl.” Aaron’s smile was tremulous. “It’s very good to meet you, Miss Stanton. I’m Aaron Beaulaine and this is my wife, Patricia.”